Tangled Up in Love (7 page)

She didn’t particularly care about winning another one of Dylan’s trophies. She had the Harrison already, which was the best of the best and the one he valued most.

Plus, in order to take possession of a second award from his collection, she would have to help him enough to ensure that he actually
did
learn to knit and would most likely win the challenge, and that was just
not
gonna happen. Not if she had anything to say about it.

But the money . . .

A thousand dollars was a lot of dough, and God knew she could use it. It would make a nice addition to her savings, to the cushion she liked to keep between herself and the poverty line.

But why, oh, why did the windfall have to come from The Jackass?

She should have walked away. She had, actually, just not very far.

Over the loud music thrumming through The Penalty Box, he’d called out that ridiculous figure, but she’d just kept going, returning to the booth where her friends—and drinks—were waiting. She’d sat down, sipped her Cosmo, and carried on a perfectly normal conversation for the next hour or so.

And then, as she’d passed his table on her way out, she’d stopped, leaned close to his ear, and given him an answer to his generous—and, she was beginning to suspect, evil—offer.

“Okay,” she’d whispered so that no one else would overhear her shame. “We’ll start next week, after knitting group.”

She hadn’t waited for a response. Had actually dashed out of the bar as fast as her Dolce & Gabbana knockoff platform wedges could carry her. Because she didn’t want to see his reaction, didn’t want to see him gloat or hear his loud guffaws as he shared the details of her humiliating capitulation with his friends.

Now she was simply waiting for the moment he would walk into The Yarn Barn, into her circle of friends who were all busy knitting their little hearts out, and announce that she’d caved to cash bribery like a house of cards.

Cursing under her breath as she lost another stitch on the sleeve of the sweater she was knitting, Ronnie checked her watch for the fifth or sixth time in less than an hour. Only ten minutes left before the meeting would end, which meant that Dylan was either running extremely late or he’d decided not to take her up on the tutoring sessions, after all.

A part of her was relieved. She didn’t
want
to help him, so she would be just as happy if he changed his mind and went off to fail this particular challenge on his own.

She would miss that thousand dollars, though. It wasn’t even in her bank account yet, but she’d already imagined it there, happily increasing the amount of her balance.

When the meeting broke up, for the first time in as long as she could remember, Ronnie begged off going for drinks at The Penalty Box. Grace and Jenna both looked at her like she’d gone berserk, but she merely shook her head and promised to talk to them later.

Tucking the lapels of her leopard-print raincoat tighter around her throat, she prepared to step off the sidewalk and head for her car, but Charlotte’s voice stopped her.

“Ronnie, dear,” the older woman called, still standing in front of the craft store doors.

Ronnie forced a smile she didn’t quite feel and turned back around. “Hey, Charlotte. Are you going over to The Penalty Box with the girls?”

“Oh, no,” she said with a deep chuckle. “One glass of wine a week is my limit, and I like to drink that on Friday evening while watching my programs.”

Ronnie smiled indulgently while Charlotte dug around in her tote.

“I spun this just for you,” Charlotte said, handing her a soft, thick skein of black yarn. “I hope you’ll use it.”

“Of course I will.” Ronnie smiled and gave Charlotte a tight hug. “You know your yarns are my very favorite to work with. Thank you.”

Charlotte’s smile was wide and pleased. “I’m glad
to hear it. Maybe you can even use it to help that Dylan fellow learn to knit.”

Ronnie pulled back, studying Charlotte’s face. Was she blushing? And why wouldn’t the woman look her in the eye?

“I’m not sure that’s going to happen,” she said slowly, “but thank you all the same. I really will put this to good use.”

Tucking the yarn into her brightly checkered bag, she started toward the curb again. “Drive carefully, Charlotte. I’ll see you next week.”

It wasn’t unusual for Charlotte to give skeins of her homemade yarn to the ladies in the knitting group. Usually, though, she brought enough for everyone and handed them out during their meetings. And she’d never before handed one to Ronnie with such an odd expression on her face.

Maybe it was the weather, or the time of night, or even the amount of pressure Ronnie felt pressing down on her from every direction these days that had her forming conspiracy theories about a dear old woman who was only being nice. She was tired and annoyed and reading too much into the situation.

But when she drove past The Yarn Barn on her way out of the parking lot and found Charlotte standing exactly where she’d left her in front of the double glass doors, her suspicions sprang to life all over again.

Honestly, what was
with
people these days? Charlotte acting strangely, her archnemesis asking her to help him . . . As she drove home, she let herself remember and long for the days when those around her acted normal and didn’t intentionally try to drive her into the wacko ward of the nearest mental health facility.

Though she probably could have afforded better, she lived in a modest downtown apartment complex overlooking Lake Erie. The wind blew a bit stronger and colder this close to the lake, but then all of Cleveland was positively frigid during the winter months, so she couldn’t see that it mattered much one way or the other.

She let herself into the building, then took the elevator up to the third floor and walked down the short hall to her apartment door. Inside, she shrugged out of her coat, kicked off her shoes, and unzipped her skirt on the way to her bedroom.

Stripping out of her work clothes, she padded naked into the bathroom to remove her makeup, wash her face, and take a nice hot shower. With her hair still wet and falling loose around her shoulders, she put on a pair of cotton lounge pants and matching top, then made her way back to the living room.

She set up her laptop on the low coffee table before running to the kitchen for a glass of water. Drink in hand, she returned to her computer and sat cross-legged on the floor with her back to the sofa to work on her latest column.

It should have been written already. Would have been, except that she’d been putting it off. She couldn’t seem to land on a decent topic and had been distracted by Dylan’s latest proposition.

Her brows knit as she admitted the last, hating that he had any effect on her at all, especially if it meant muddling her brain when it came to her job.

In the past, she’d covered issues ranging from those as serious as safe sex and self-defense for women to those as inconsequential as nail polish brand comparisons and popular cocktail recipes.

This week, she was torn between writing about how to get rid of a guy you weren’t interested in—but who always seemed to be around, becoming a complete pain in the ass—or warning readers about a popular downtown eatery that was rumored to be bribing health inspectors to stay in business. The idea of venting her frustrations with The Jackass was tempting, but honor—and a fair share of potential guilt—dictated that she alert the citizens of Cleveland that there might be rat droppings in their sandwiches or roaches in their salads.

Reaching for the remote control, Ronnie flipped through channels until she found something with decent background music, then started tapping away. Since everything she’d heard about the restaurant in question was merely rumor and speculation, she didn’t mention it by name, but she gave enough hints that she thought anyone who was familiar with the businesses downtown would put two and two together and choose to dine elsewhere in the future.

Her fingers danced across the keyboard as she hit her stride and was typing out words almost faster than she could read them. She no longer heard the noise of the television, wouldn’t have known if she was in the middle of her living room or Grand Central Station. It was The Zone, one of her favorite places to be.

But while The Zone was great, almost like being inside a bubble that kept minor irritations at bay, it didn’t render her entirely deaf and dumb. Over the clicking of the keys and the humming of the laptop’s fan came an insistent, bothersome knocking.

Ronnie’s fingers slowed, her mouth pulling down in a frown as she was yanked out of her nice focused cocoon and forced to identify the annoying noise. It took
her a second, but she finally realized that someone was at the door.

Muttering a creative curse, she saved her work, muted the television, and climbed to her feet, crossing the carpeted floor to peer through the peephole.

Oh, God in Heaven, it was
him
.

Glancing into the kitchen, she checked the time on the stove’s digital clock.

What the heck was The Jackass doing outside her door at ten o’clock at night?

She rested her head against the flat wooden panel and tried to slow her erratic breathing. Maybe he would go away, maybe . . .

He pounded again, louder and longer this time.

He wasn’t going away.

All right, Veronica, you can handle this. Take a deep breath, open the door, and show this man you aren’t intimidated by having him show up at your apartment unexpectedly.

Following her own advice, she steeled her nerves, twisting the dead bolt and slipping the chain loose. Dylan stood in the hallway, a dopey half smile on his face, blue eyes sparkling with mischief. Ronnie kept her own expression stoically blank.

“What are you doing here, Stone?”

He leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb, careless and nonchalant. “I expected you to show up at The Box after your knitting group. Where were you?”

“I had things to do,” she answered shortly. “Why do you care?”

From behind his back, he produced his needles, yarn, and the portion of knitting he’d gotten done the week before with her guiding him every step of the
way. “Our lesson, remember? You said we’d start after tonight’s meeting.”

For several long seconds, she stared. Yes, she’d told him she would tutor him in the art of knitting. Yes, she’d told him they’d start after this week’s knitting group. But when he hadn’t shown up, she’d decided he’d had a change of heart and put him completely out of her mind.

“You want to start the lessons
now
?”

He shrugged, continuing to grin at her with those crystal blue, spine-melting eyes. “Why not?”

Because it was ten o’clock at night.

Because she hadn’t agreed to work with him at her apartment.

Because she wanted to finish her article and go to bed without being plagued by his exasperating presence.

But what came out of her mouth was a deep sigh and then, “Fine.” She stepped back and let him in, shutting the door behind him with a click.

“I like your jammies,” he said when she turned back around.

Yet another reason she would never have invited him anywhere near her home. She didn’t want him seeing her in her pink basset hound lounge pants and matching top. She didn’t want him invading her space, seeing how she lived, knowing things about her that she let very few others become privy to.

Some might say she was secretive, but she liked to think she merely valued her privacy and chose to reflect a certain image in public that she didn’t necessarily maintain when she was alone.

And she would sincerely prefer Dylan only ever see her in her perfectly tailored power suits without
knowing she came home and climbed into pink puppy-dog pajamas.

As far as small favors were concerned, she supposed she should be relieved that she hadn’t opted for her pair of Austin Powers
Do I make you horny, baby? Do I?
shorty pajamas.

There were some questions in life she
really
did not want Dylan to give her an answer for.

“Would you like something to drink?” she asked, however reluctantly, ignoring his comment.

He moved into the living area, making himself comfortable without an invitation to do so. “What have you got?”

She thought a minute, picturing the contents of her refrigerator. “Milk, juice, water . . .” A bottle of wine in one of the cupboards, but she didn’t mention that. She wasn’t going to waste good alcohol on him.

“No beer?” he asked.

“No, sorry.”

He glanced at the muted television screen as though checking to see what was on, then turned again to face her, towering over her low coffee table and small, overstuffed sofa.

“Guess I’ll take some juice, then.” His lips quirked as he shot her a relaxed smile. “Although, if you had a little vodka to spill in the glass, I wouldn’t complain.”

“Sorry, no vodka, either.”

“Spoilsport.”

Not bothering to reply, Ronnie turned on her heel and moved into the kitchenette to pour a glass of orange juice. When she returned to the living room, she found Dylan perched on the edge of the sofa, elbows on his knees, studying the open screen of her laptop.

“What are you doing?” she snapped, more sharply than she’d actually intended.

Lifting his head, he met her eyes and without a shred of remorse said, “Reading your column.”

As she moved forward, he slid over on the couch, making room for her and reaching for his drink. “It’s good. But the deli you’re talking about isn’t Sardowski’s on East Ninth, is it? Because I stop there a lot for takeout, and I don’t even want to think about what I’ve been eating if all this is true.”

The corner of her mouth twitched as she fought not to laugh. “You might want to consider finding somewhere else to pick up lunch,” she said by way of an answer, taking a seat on the cushion beside him.

With an overly dramatic groan, he threw himself back against the arm of the couch. “Oh, man, I feel sick. Maybe you should drive me to the hospital so I can have my stomach pumped.”

She chuckled, sipping from her own glass of water. “I think you’ll be all right. Though you may want to consider starting a course of heavy-duty antibiotics, just to be safe.”